


Trial and Tribulations of Raising a Nephilim

by Sickandtiredofyou



Series: Adventures of Supernatural Parenthood [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Baby Jack Kline, Canon Temporary Character Death, Cas comes back I swear, Dean Winchester Being an Asshole, Grieving Dean Winchester, Happy Ending, M/M, Post-Episode: s12e23 All Along the Watchtower, how is that not a tag yet???, widower arc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:42:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28159950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sickandtiredofyou/pseuds/Sickandtiredofyou
Summary: Dean has far too much on his plate, losing his mom, his best friend and now being a single parent to a newborn nephilim.In which Jack is an actual newborn instead of a teenager.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Adventures of Supernatural Parenthood [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2135307
Comments: 243
Kudos: 1269





	1. Chapter 1

Dean can't breathe. He takes shuttering, gulping breaths as he kneels besides Cas’s body, but his head still swims and hands still shake as they reach toward his face. It's still warm, his stubble bristling against Dean's fingers and for a moment Dean pretends.

He pretends like things are alright, that his mother hadn't jumped headfirst into a portal with Satan, that Kelly was still alive in that house. That Cas was just knocked out, asleep on the grass.

Dean lets his forehead rest against Cas’s and he tries to breath. He can't cry, he won't. If he starts now he knows he’ll never stop. The lump in his throat burns as he turns his face towards the stars.

This never should have happened.

The dew has soaked into his jeans, but his head still spins and everything goes comfortably numb.

Dean sees his hands shake as he scoops Cas up, his head cradled between his shoulder and neck. He’s heavy. Cas had always been a lot of muscle, hidden under that tax accountant exterior, but he had never felt this heavy. His nose is cold where it brushes Dean’s neck. His blood soaks into Dean’s shirt, and he can’t feel it pull and tug at his skin as it grows tacky.

_This never should have happened._

Irony sits like a lead weight in Dean’s stomach as he walks up the front steps of Cas’s house. It makes his stomach roll, bile climbing up his throat and he buries his nose in Cas’s hair.

They cross the threshold of the house. Bitterness creeps through him, mixing with the stale blood on his tongue. This is just a cruel parody of everything he ever wanted.

This was the place Cas wanted to make his home. Dean saw the nursery, the toys, the rooms.

Cas was going to live a happy life here and Dean would give almost anything, anything to have this for real. To carry Cas over the threshold of the bunker, Sam, Mom, Jody, and the girls laughing in the background. To fight over the colors of the nursery and what toys to get.

Dean would never admit it, to himself or anyone else, but the thought of an apple pie life with some stranger, or even Lisa, didn't cut it anymore.

When he thinks of a perfect life its Cas, and Sam and this makeshift, ragtag family that they’ve put together. It’s everyone happy and safe and settled in some nowhere town where their kids and their kids kids could play and be away from whatever shitty sham of a life they're living right now.

It’s waking up in the morning and finding a case to work on, Cas by his side. It’s saving the day and coming home to his family alive and well.

Dean gently lays Cas on the table, hovers over him for a couple moments, letting his lips brush Cas’s forehead in the whisper of a kiss. Another thing he’s wanted for years, now suddenly obvious in the face of his friends….

With shaking hands and shuddering breaths he takes Cas’s trench coat off and bundles it up under his head. He makes sure that Cas is as comfortable as possible before wandering off to find Sam.

The trek upstairs feels as if it takes a lifetime. The silence is telling. There are no more screams or grunts, no yelling or fighting.

No baby crying.

Sam is completely still as Dean finally enters Kelly’s room and terror creeps up his spine. If something has happened to Sam, Dean wouldn’t leave. He would sit there and wait. Wait until the angels or demons or whatever god forsaken creature finds them and….

Deans desperately looks him over, pulling at his jackets and flannels, looking for any sign of blood. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding when he doesn't see any serious injuries.

Although Sam bats his hand away, his eyes stay glued to where Kelly’s body lays prone on the bed.

The baby is squirming on the bed, the sheets around him charred and black. Someone (probably mom, his mind supplies, sending a bolt of pain through him) had started to clean Kelly up, but there was still blood on the sheets, coating her thighs.

For a moment, Dean wants nothing more than to leave. He wants to run away, leave the baby to its fate. Let the angels or demons have the damn thing because he wants nothing to do with it.

But instead, he finds himself moving closer.

The first thing he sees is a mop of hair. It sticks up in tufts but other parts are slicked to its head with blood and other stuff that Dean really doesn't want to think about. It’s face is squished and red like any newborn and it has a tiny button nose.

For all intents and purposes it's just a baby, and something in Dean softens. Then, he sees the baby's eyes and nearly takes a step back, sucking in a sharp breath automatically.

They glow an unnatural gold in the dark room, like a beacon that draws you in, unnaturally intelligent already. They're not the eyes of a human baby, but Dean already knew it wouldn't be human.

That isn't what breaks Dean.

What breaks Dean is when the baby’s eyes lock onto Dean and it lets out a whimper, eyes fading, turning a stunning shade of blue that Dean had only seen on one other person. Dean lets his eyes fall shut, something halfway between a laugh and a sob caught in his throat because the kid wasn't even Cas’s, why does he have his eyes?

“Dean, don't.” Dean ignores Sam’s voice, moving to pick up the small body on the bed. Much smaller than Dean remembered Sam being, nothing more than 5 and a half pounds at most. Sam was a big baby, who grew into a much bigger man and Dean can feel the phantom weight of him in his arms. It was far too heavy a weight for a 4 year old to carry.

Holding the baby burns, its skin hot against his arms, searing only for moments before cooling to a normal temperature. It grounds him, bringing him back from whatever plane of existence he was on; for a moment he’s overcome by a feeling that nearly brings him to his knees.

It was still looking at him with those intelligent blue eyes, cradled in the crook of his arm.

“Pack.” Dean stated, finally turning to look at Sam. He was staring back at Dean with something close to fear in his eyes, but an order was an order. In some part of his mind, Dean is disgusted with himself. The tone sending him spiraling back to everytime they had to move as a kid. Every harsh word his dad said to him in his grief. But a bigger part still burns with that feeling of helplessness, with grief so absolute he can't find it in himself to care.

“I'll make sure we get all the essentials, formula, diapers, wipes.” Sam mutters but doesn't look away from where the baby sat in Dean’s arms. He takes a breath and Deans knows he's going to hate whatever comes next; he braces himself. Sam was many things, smart, a hell of a lot more caring than Dean, but he always wanted to talk. He wanted to get everything out in the open and deal with it when Dean would like to do nothing more than curl up with a stiff drink. “Dean, the bodies…”

No matter how much he braces himself it still hurts like a punch to the gut. Dean turns sharply, heading towards the nursery to get clothes and a washcloth for the baby’s first bath.

“Don’t touch Cas.”

“Dean…”

“Don’t.” Sam went silent, taking a step back at Dean’s tone.

The baby is completely silent for its first bath. Dean distinctly remembers the way that Sam would scream and cry when the water touched him. Bathtime was torture for the both of them until Sam was nearly three. But not this one, he simply looks at Dean throughout the entire process. Even as Dean pours the warm water over his head to wash the gore out of his hair, careful to keep the suds and water off his face, he simply squirms.

Dean delicately pulls the pajamas on, after socks and a diaper, and has to hold back another sob. It's definitely something Cas picked out, a soft blue with pale yellow and black bees buzzing around. He pauses, resting his head against his burned forearm, lets the pain ground him.

Kelly had a wrap, folded neatly over the crib bars, directions printed and underlined on the changing table next to it. Dean makes sure the wrap is correct and tight, keeping the baby close to his chest, high enough that he could feel his soft puffs of breath against his chest. The cloth supporting his head. He can already hear the mocking he was going to get from Sam.

It hurts to look at the nursery. Dean can see Cas in every aspect. The crib is slightly crooked in some places, the walls a soft blue, the paint a little messy. Tiny imperfections that spoke of Cas without him even being there.

Cas wanted this kid. He wanted this kid enough to die for him. It is written plainly everywhere he looks. Cas and Kelly put so much thought and research into this, bought the best they could. They did their best to make this a house that Cas could raise the baby in. No matter what, Lucifer's blood or not, this baby was Cas’s.

Family doesn't start or end in blood and Cas had chosen this baby as part of their family. Who is Dean to spite his dying wish?

Dean only regrets not trusting Cas sooner. Lucifer couldn't enter the bunker, everyone would have been safe, alive. They might have even found a way to save Kelly.

Dean had thought that they learned their lesson with every single world ending event that had happened before. They needed to trust each other, talk about their plans and what they knew and didn't know. In their line of work keeping secrets gets you killed.

He places a soft hand on the baby's head and realizes that he had fallen asleep.

Dean finds himself wandering into Cas’s room, unable to control himself as he pushes the door open. If Dean thought the nursery was bad, this is like a hit to the chest. Cas is in every inch of this room. From the rumpled bed, to the phone on the bedside table, to the single picture frame on the desk and something in Deans chest burns. He aches and hurts.

The picture is of Cas, Sam, Claire, and him. He's not even sure of when it was taken, though he’s sure it was Jody’s handiwork. Claire is laughing at something Sam had said, her legs thrown over Cas’s, but Cas is too busy glaring at the camera. It's Dean himself that catches him off guard. He's looking at Cas like he hung the stars, like there was nothing more important in the world.

He takes the picture out of its frame and slides it into his pocket, his eyes burning.

Dean grabs the sheets from the bed.

The baby is a solid weight on his chest and it grounds him as he nearly stumbles down the steps. Dean can see Sam outside, piling wood up and takes a shuddering breath as he draws close to where Cas lays peacefully on the table.

It’s the hardest thing he’s ever had to do, wrap up Cas’s body in that stark white sheet. He works with gentle hands, ignoring how Sam has pointedly collapsed in the living room, leaving him to his work.

His only company is the baby's soft puffs of air against his chest and the slowly cooling body of his best friend.

Dean has to pause when he ties the first slip of fabric around Cas’s feet. The finality of it strikes him and his entire body curls in on itself. He has to grip the table, face turned to bury his nose in the newborn's hair. This may be the last time he ever sees him; there's no coming back from a full salt and burn.

He takes a second to breathe, trying to calm the pain in his chest and he walks to the head of the table.

Before he placed the sheet over Cas’s head for the final time he once again leaned over, pushing Cas’s hair away from his eyes.

“Hey Cas,” Dean’s voice breaks and he's forced to clear his throat. “I want you to meet your son, Jack.” Cas doesn't respond. Of course he doesn’t, but Dean desperately wishes he would. Wishes he would get up and ask to hold Jack. Dean would teach him how to support his head and make sure that he was secure. But, instead, the only noise is his own harsh breaths as the pain in his throat grows and Jack’s small snuffles against his chest.

Dean places one last kiss to Cas’s forehead and covers his face, tying the last of the sheet down.

“Sam.” He tries to make his voice strong but, still, it wavers. Sam bolts up as if Dean had woken him. He regrets it, momentarily, this would turn out to be the longest drive home and he needed to stop every two hours to take care of Jack. That is if he even stuck to a normal newborn schedule.

Gently, not to disturb Jack’s sleeping form, Dean picks up Cas. With every step towards the pyre the weight in his arms grows heavier. It settles in Dean’s chest and chokes him.

Kelly is already there; he lays Cas next to her. It hurts to know that this is it. There's no coming back, no second chances, not anymore.

Sam pours the gasoline and the salt. Dean’s hands shake too much for him to hold anything but he cups the back of Jack's head through the wrap’s fabric. When he looks at him his eyes are open and bright, shining gold as he stares at the bodies. Dean has a feeling the baby is smarter than they know. It's as if he knows what's happening.

Dean thinks of watching his mother burn and tucks the newborn's head closer to his chest.

There's no need for him to watch.

The sun is rising as they finally throw the match down. There's no body to burn but Dean can feel his mothers absence like a missing limb. He watches the flames grow higher and mourns everything he wanted. A life with Cas, a life with his family, at least what left of it, together and happy.

Suddenly a scream rips through the air, so loud Dean has to cover his ears. It's loud enough that it moves the flames making them ripple through the air.

Dean looks down and sees Jack's face, screwed up and crying. Something in him breaks and he feels a tear fall before he can stop it. He can't find the words to comfort Jack. Words never come easy when he is going through shit like this, so instead he sways side to side cradling him in his arms and buries his face in baby soft hair.

Dean’s eyes don’t leave the pyre until it’s nothing but ash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cptnvers on tumblr made a drawing of the [Pyre scene](https://cptnvers.tumblr.com/post/641572972861292544/widower-arc-ft-baby-jack-bc-of-that-one-fic) And it’s amazing and you should all check it out!


	2. Chapter 2

While Jack never quite screams the way he did at the pyre, he is suddenly no longer a quiet baby. It seems to have awoken something in him and the only time he had quieted since was while they were driving. 

Something about the Impala soothes him, maybe it was the noise or the vibrations but inevitably, when they pulled over to feed him he would start crying as the car drew to a stop. 

Dean can see Sam’s growing frustration with the baby, he had never dealt with one besides Bobby John, and even then he had left most of it to Dean. Sam has never really had to take care of a baby this small before. 

Neither had Dean, to be honest. Sam and Bobby John had both been about six months old when he started to care for them. Sam was able to stay sitting up, support his own head, and babble at Dean. He had already grown past the stage of waking up at night. 

Jack was none of those things. Dean needs to make sure to cradle his head when he carries him, and burp him every single time he feeds him instead of just when he has gas. It's all a learning experience for him.

But, he still knows a lot more than Sam does. 

Dean didn't blame Sam for getting fed up with the baby. Jack’s cries, despite not being supersonic anymore, were still piercing. 

Every two hours Dean pulled over into whatever stop he could find, pulling the camping stove out of the trunk to heat the bottles of water taken from Cas’s house. With steady hands he measures out the powder into the bottle perched on the trunk of the Impala and struggles to pull himself out of the memories threatening to drown him. 

Life on the road with a baby was hard, more than once Dean was forced to feed Sam in the backseat of the Impala, his dad slaving over that fucking journal. Sam's body was nearly half the size of his own. He used gentle hands to burp him when he needed to, frantically cleaned the seats as he inevitably puked. Dad hated when the Impala was dirty. 

Dean knows, now, to hold a burping rag under Jack's chin, carefully patting his back. His eyes flutter shut as he drinks from the bottle, hiding those blue eyes from view and making Dean’s chest ache. Blue eyes and brown hair, pale skin flawless and baby smooth where Dean runs his fingers along one cheek. He looked like a doll more than anything, any puffiness and redness already gone. That makes Dean pause because he knows that it can take a while before babies stop looking so… smooshed, but here Jack is. 

Him and Sam switch off on driving in six hour shifts. Dean doesn’t sleep for long when it's Sam’s turn to drive. When he closes his eyes he sees flames, blood soaked grass, silver peaking through a white shirt. He doesn't cry. 

Who knew how close the angels were, or if they were even following them in the first place. No doubt the demons already know and without Crowley keeping them in line…. Their only saving grace is that Lucifer is gone as well; the demons will be in disarray until they find a new leader.

Dean knuckles go white on the steering wheel whenever his mind is inevitably drawn to Crowley, or Mom, or Kelly or… and he’s forced to shake himself out of it, turn the music louder, push the gas pedal a little harder, but there's no running away from your feelings. The only thing he can do is shove them in a box and drink them away later.

When it’s Sam's turn in the backseat, he doesn't touch Jack. Dean knows it's because he's scared he’ll hurt him. Sam is convinced that whatever he touches dies. Dean can see the way he already cares for the kid, but he won’t touch him. Instead he sleeps with his head pressed against the window, as far away from the baby as possible. 

Dean leaves him alone with Jack once, claiming he needs to use the bathroom but instead circles to the back of the gas station. He hasn’t done this is a while. Not since god had abandoned them to run off with his sister. He turns to face the sky, bright blue reminding him far too much of Cas’s eyes and his throat burns.

“Okay, Chuck…” He has to clear his throat, choking on the feeling that sits heavy in his chest. “or God, or whatever. I need your help.” He takes a great shuddering breath. “See, you– you left us. You left us. You went off. You said the earth would be fine because it had me and Sam, but it's not, and we're not.” He pauses waiting for something, some sign that he is listening, that this wasn't just Dean choking and stuttering on his own words in some back alley.

“We've lost everything and now you're gonna bring him back. Okay? You're gonna bring back Cas, you're gonna bring back Mom, you're gonna bring them all back. All of them. Even Crowley.” Another pause, a breath, then two. But there's no answer. No phone call from Cas, no laugh as Crowley appears out of nowhere like the goddamn cheshire cat. Absolutely nothing and anger rises like bile at the back of his throat.

This wasn't fair. Nothing about this was fair. Why did God get to frolic in the tulips with his sister while Dean lost nearly everyone he ever loved. Why does Cas have to die for a girl he barely knows, a baby he never even gets to meet. Why does Dean have to be the one left behind to mourn everything he wanted?

“Because after everything that you've done, you owe us, you son of a bitch. So you get your ass down here and you make this right, right here and right now.” Dean's voice rises with his anger, tears gathering in his eyes without permission. This wait is longer, a minute before Dean suddenly erupts punching the wall in front of him until his knuckles crack and bleed. The pain grounds him.

“Please,” He begs, falling to his knees, head cradled in his hand. “Please God, just bring them back.”

He sits there for far too long. Long enough that he knows Sam will be looking for him. An ache has settled in his hand and he focuses on a single drop of blood sliding down his arm as he drags himself off the floor. It stains the bandages wrapped around his burns.

When he gets back to the Impala, Jack is absolutely screaming, tears running down his tiny face, beanie askew on his head. Sam is looking at him as if he was a bomb ready to go off at any moment, which honestly wasn't too far off the mark. They don't know what causes the shockwave scream that happened at the pyre, but he worries that it will happen in public. 

Dean plucks Jack out of his car seat, carefully cradling his head and neck with his fingers. His diaper was dry, he was fed and burped, but still he cried no matter what. The only thing that seems to calm him is Dean himself, pulling him close and humming gently. 

“Dean, your hand--” Sam starts but is quickly silenced by Deans glare. He didn't want to talk about this, he didn't want to have a chick flick moment where he and Sam cry and deal with their feelings. Dean just wants to be home, safe in the bunker, so he could drink himself to sleep and maybe not dream for once.

“Am I driving or you?” Sam asks instead as Dean starts to buckle Jack back in. They’ll have to stop again in two hours, travelling with a baby was quickly turning this 24 hour trip into a 30 hour trip. But, they’re already halfway through their journey, and Dean really wanted to drive straight through.

“I'll drive,” Dean states, his voice like gravel. Sam is still giving him that look, the one that means he wants to talk instead of let Dean deal with this himself. But another glare cuts off whatever words he was about to say.

The road was calming, the sense of doing something, going somewhere. Idleness never appealed to Dean, not really. 

“And he's out.” Sam mumbles, turning to face the window once more. Dean nods, silently relieved. The kid was loud when he wanted to be and Dean didn't have the frame of mind to quiet him.

It's no less than two hours later that they're forced to stop for the night. The Impala wasn't made to be a family car, Sam is obviously squished in the back and Jack is slowly becoming inconsolable even when they are driving. It doesn't help that they're was more baby stuff than what could fit in their trunk. Any available space was buried under diapers and cans of formula, making the already cramped space seem even smaller.

Dean is more than annoyed when they pull into the motel, Sam guiding him off the freeway. Just like every other moment the car slows to a stop, Jack quickly starts crying louder and Dean’s frustration grows. Dean is forced to wait outside the clerk office, rocking the newborn’s carrier back and forth in an effort to calm him. The clerk makes a face at him through the glass. 

Dean can’t find it in himself to care at the moment, more focused on calming a screaming Jack. He had to fight back the feeling of nostalgia. He remembers waiting with Sam clutched in his tiny arms or clinging to his hand as his dad got them a room. Dean remembers the line of clerks who gave him that same annoyed look, though filled with more pity. Babies were never good for the hotel business.

Sam very quickly collapses onto one of the beds leaving Dean at a loss. The playpen had been too big to pack, Dean had figured they’d be home before they would need one, and it felt cruel to make Jack sleep in his carrier when he had already been in it for so long.

Instead he carefully lays Jack in the middle of the bed. He is far too young to actually roll off the bed, but better safe than sorry. His cries slow after he has a fresh diaper and a full stomach. Instead he was letting out small whimpers, his eyes never leaving Dean. 

It is strange, Dean knows that newborns don’t have great depth perception or focus. He shouldn’t even be able to _see_ Dean from that far away, let alone focus on him. He sets his bag next to the baby and watches as is his hand flail and grasp at the straps. He looks so tiny on that bed, dwarfed by everything around him, vulnerable in a way that makes Dean’s chest tight. 

Dean makes sure to tuck a pillow on either side of Jack, those blue _blue_ eyes watching him all the while. The whimpering has stopped now that Dean has moved closer and Dean looks at the newborn, truly looks at him. 

The hair, cute tufts of downy, medium brown hair sticks straight up from his head, longer than he remembers Sam or Bobby John’s being. But, once again it's the eyes that catch Dean of guard. Kelly’s eyes had been green, a similar shade to Dean’s own and although Jefferson Rooney may have had blue eyes, it's uncanny how familiar Jack‘s are. 

They shine in the low light of the motel room, reminding Dean of every quiet conversation he and Cas have had in some dingy motel while Sam slept behind them. It was the innocence, he guessed. 

In the barn, Cas’s eyes were filled with so much innocence, so much hope for humanity. It was the same innocence and hope they filled with when he spoke of Jack. Eight years later and Cas still has that same belief that there was good in the world.

Those eyes lit any room he was in. 

Dean saw them every night when he slept.

It doesn't hurt any less to see them here, especially not when Cas is…. 

Jack makes a strange cooing noise and reaches towards Dean with a tiny hand.

This baby couldn't be evil, nothing this innocent was ever truly evil, but he would need guidance, protection. And, somehow, that responsibility fell to Dean. To Dean. Dean who shouldn't be trusted with a dog, let alone a baby, let alone one of the most powerful beings in existence. 

_The very touch of you corrupts._

Dean tugs the couch as close as possible to Jack’s bed. Not that he actually uses it that much that night. 

Jack’s first night on earth leaves him distraught and more than once there's a banging on the walls when Jack's squalling reaches its peak. Sam has curled up with his head under his pillow, but Dean knows from experience just how little that helps.

It's not until Dean finally lays on the bed with him, Jack curled up on his chest, that his cries finally cease. 

Dean still doesn't sleep that night.


	3. Chapter 3

The next day is just as rough as the day before. Everyone's patience is wearing thin, Dean knows it, Sam knows it, and Jack probably knows it also. It is far too long in far too small of a space and Dean knows it's not good for a baby, especially one that young, to be in the carrier for that long. They just need to get home, that's it.

It's a relief when they finally pull into the garage, even if it is well past 9 o’clock. Jack is actually quiet for once as they roll to a stop. He’s staring around curiously as Dean unclicks the carrier from the car, throwing his own bag and the diaper bag over the other arm, and once again Dean is struck by how odd that actually was. He wasn't even two days old yet.

Jack would have to be set up in Dean's room until they could find him a crib, and even then he would need around the clock attention for at least another 2 months before he could start sleeping through the night.

The sheer daunting nature of his task suddenly overwhelms Dean. 

He didn't sign up for this. He didn’t want to be a dad. Not now, when they barely have a handle on their own lives. Dean couldn't imagine bringing a new life into a world like theirs. Everything about this world is dangerous. Maybe not psycho apocalyptic world dangerous, but still dangerous. How is he supposed to keep Jack safe when every force in the world was coming after him?

There was no one to guide Dean, besides his own memories. No Mom to teach him how to properly heat a bottle, no Crowley to snark about how exactly not to raise kids. No Cas….

Dean and Sam's childhood was crap, surfing from motel room to motel room, with the occasional stop at a babysitter or Bobbys. He wouldn't- no he _couldn't_ subject Jack to that. Cas wants Jack to live a happy life and Dean is going to give him that. 

Dean leaves Sam to unpack most of the stuff, he can hear him grumbling under his breath all the way out of the garage, and heads straight to his room. He’s pretty sure it's too late for Jack to be up still and he wasn't due for a bottle for another hour or so. Instead he pulls Jack out of the carrier and places him in the middle of the bed once more, throwing his bag and the diaper bag on the small table across the room.

For a moment, Dean sits on the chair and watches the baby. He squirms on the bed, hands grasping the air and making that strange cooing noise that Dean assumes means he’s content. 

It was strange knowing that this was one of the most dangerous beings in the world, possibly more powerful than Lucifer himself. That nearly every force on heaven, hell, and earth was after this one being who couldn't be trusted to not scratch his own face. He couldn't even hold up his own head yet. 

There was no outward sign, his eyes and supersonic scream excluded, that he was anything but a normal baby boy. 

It doesn't take long before Jack starts to whimper quietly. His eyes screw shut and he waves his tiny fists around in a way that Dean is quickly learning means he's hungry. 

“Okay.” Dean sighs and pushes off his chair. Jack quiets at the sound of his voice and Dean watches as his eyes attempt to focus on Dean. “Okay, let's get you some food.”

He doesn't bother with the wrap that he had snuck into his bag before they left, it wasn't worth it to put it on when Jack would hopefully fall asleep during his feeding. Then, Dean could get a drink and maybe try to sleep a couple hours.

Instead, he tucks Jack into the crook of his arm after digging out the can of formula in the diaper bag. The trip to the kitchen is rather uneventful, Dean had to learn very quickly how to do things one handed. It was about half way back to Dean's room that Jack began to get fussy, tears and drool quickly making a mess of his face. 

Somewhere down the hall Dean hears Sam’s door slam shut with a certain finality and closes his eyes with a sigh. 

Feeding Jack was another thing Dean has to grow used to, it was far different from feeding a six month old. 

For one, unlike Sam or Bobby John, he very quickly falls asleep once he has the bottle in his mouth. Dean lets his fingers graze the baby's cheek and the hand that wraps around his own in an effort to keep him awake. He has to make sure to burp him afterwards and more often than not he would end up with baby puke on some part of him. 

The process of burping him was unnerving as well, Dean worrying he wasn't patting hard enough or too hard. Jack is so small that he seems dwarfed by Dean’s hand, spanning nearly the entire length of his back.

It's a test of his patience each time, the process taking anywhere from 30 minutes to an hour. By the end of this round he can feel the world blurring a little around the edges, telling him that he’s been awake for far too long. 

He places a pillow on one side of Jack, but finds himself searching the room when he realizes that he only has one pillow. 

It isn't until he opens his bag that he remembers what he had placed in there before they left. The sight of it makes him suck in a sharp breath, eyes closing as if it would change the image when he opens his eyes. 

With shaking hands he pulls out Cas’s trench coat. 

He finds himself lost in the details, small scrapes and scuffs that Cas didn't bother fixing, a button nearly falling off, a smudge of paint along the cuff. But eventually his eyes are drawn to the hole where a silver knife had ended one of the last truly good things in his life. 

He bundles it up and lays it on the other side of Jack, opposite to his own pillow. He has to drag a hand down his face as Jack sleepily latches onto it, tiny hands clutching one of the lapels. 

Dean finally falls asleep curled around Jack and the trenchcoat, his own hand covering Jacks where it was connected to the coat.  
-  
Dean is already wide awake, having spent the last two hours trying to get a colicky Jack to fall back to sleep, when Sam emerges from his room. He’s fully dressed and on the phone grinning bigger than anything Dean had seen in a long time.

“Of course, Missouri, I’ll be there.” Sam says, placing his gear bag on the table and throwing books in seemingly at random. He pauses at Dean’s raised eyebrow holding up a finger. “No just me. You'll probably know why as soon as I get there, so I’ll let it be a surprise till then.”

Dean gives Jack a look but finds him focusing instead on the sound of Sam’s voice, quizzically searching for the source. He has already eaten and has a dry diaper so he was just awake, content in Dean's arms. 

Dean looks back at Sam as he hangs up, throwing his phone onto the table and turning back to grabbing books. 

“Missouri Mosley has, what she assumes to be, a wraith attacking psychics, so I have Jody on the case.” Dean once again raises his eyebrow as his brother continues to pack.

He was torn. He didn't want Sam going out there on his own; he had already lost so much and he couldn't keep him safe from 100 miles away. But at the same time they couldn't exactly bring a baby with them on the case, especially not with something as dangerous as a wraith. 

“I'm going to meet her out there for backup, should be about three days, four if it gets too late.” Sam continues oblivious to Dean's inner turmoil. 

Sam is almost to the door when Dean snags his jacket, dragging him to a stop. 

“Be careful.” Dean nearly pleads. “I can’t….”

Sam just nods, his face serious enough that Dean knows he doesn't have to finish, and turns to continue up the steps and out the front door.  
-  
The first couple of hours, Dean just putters around the bunker, Jack perched in his arms, putting away the various baby things they had taken from Cas’s house. 

There's unsurprisingly no old baby things lying around, not that Dean would trust whatever things were lying around the bunker. Knowing his luck he would find a crib and it would be haunted by some baby eating demon. He is better off just buying a new crib.

“Okay, you want to take a trip, buddy?” Jack is finally passed out in his arms, leaving Dean talking to the empty air. His voice echoes along the walls of the bunker and it hits Dean just how alone he is. His breath catches in his throat and he's overwhelmed by the grief flowing through him.

He snatches the baby carrier from the floor and is quick to buckle in Jack, the baby grumbling as he's moved from his comfortable spot in Dean's arms.

The nearest baby store is nearly an hour away, but the drive seems to settle something in both him and Jack. It hurts Dean that Jack has already started to associate the impala with home and safety the same way Sam and him had. He deserves better; he deserves a real home.

The room that Dean had picked out as the ‘nursery’ was just the closest to his own, directly across the hall so that Dean could leave both doors open at night and clearly hear the baby. Its walls are the same plain gray as every other room and it had a bed and dresser already inside. 

Dean wanders the aisles of the store and ignores the cooing of the women wandering alongside him. Once or twice he swears the same woman passes by him just to look, ignoring whatever was in the aisle he was in, high chairs or some crap like that.

One finally talks to him as he's looking through the cribs, chest aching with something he doesn't even want to think about. Jack is awake in his carrier, peering up at Dean with a curious gaze that makes Dean lean down to brush his hair back. He's pretty sure contact was good for babies.

“He’s beautiful.” The woman had paused where she was looking at the car seats, and is now turned towards Dean and Jack. “A little late to be crib shopping though, where's your wife?.” She smiles and it grates on Dean’s nerves.

“Dead.” Dean thinks of blue eyes and a flash of white. “There was an accident.”

“Oh.” She seems to regret her words, visibly recoiling in a way that's almost satisfying.

“Well at least you have this little one.” She reaches towards Jack who is currently fascinated with the mitten on his hand, alternating between gumming at it and waving it around. Dean has to resist the urge to smack her hand away. “A part of her will always live on through him.” 

Dean quickly makes his escape, unease and grief growing stronger with every word she spoke. 

Cas wasn't his significant other, wasn't his boyfriend or husband, wasn't anything but a friend. But part of Dean is shattering, because he wants that so bad it's like a physical ache. 

He gets the crib and buys a playpen and other necessities, trying to block that entire conversation out of his mind. Jack is slowly growing discontent with staying in his carrier and he would be due for a change and a feeding soon. 

Hours later, as he struggles to put the crib together, Jack fast asleep in his playpen, he’s still biting back the longing that threatens to choke him.  
-  
It's three days later that Sam finally comes back. Jack is asleep in his playpen, having just eaten, and Dean is taking a break from painting the nursery a beer loose in his hand.

The expression on Sam’s face is telling, his eyebrows drawn together, shoulders tense. It's a relief to see him, the few updates he had gotten not providing nearly enough info to settle his nerves. Dean has avoided the news for the past couple days, more focused on getting the nursery together and getting Jack into some sort of routine, but now wishes he hadn't.

Sam lets his gear bag fall to the floor with a sigh, dragging a hand down his face.

“Missouri is dead.” 

The words strike somewhere deep in Dean’s soul, somewhere so ugly and dark that no one deserves to be subject to. The pit of self doubt and blame and shame mixed into some fucked up tangle of emotions that Dean himself doesn't want to touch.

Dead. 

Missouri was _dead_.

For the first time since the gas station, Dean walks away from Jack, leaves him with Sam. He storms into the nearly complete nursery and, for a moment, pauses. 

Then it all comes crashing down.

It _never_ stops. They never stop _losing_ people. 

He should have been there. Him and Sam could have saved Missouri, together they could have all made it out alive. It could have been the win they needed after such a long run of losses. Because, more than anything, Dean wants to win something. To go into a fight and come out the otherside without losing everything that's important to him. 

He wants to be able to come home and see everyone he loves. He wants to be able to hand Jack off to his mom and know that he can take a break. He wants to look at his brother and know he didn't fail spectacularly at raising him. He wants to be able to argue with Cas over what color to paint the nursery and what formula they should be buying and what diapers are best and….

Dean grabs the can of paint lying on the floor and launches it with a roar at the far wall, yellow splattering like blood. His own boils in his veins and he's so, so angry.

Why do they have to be the ones who lose everything? Why was it them that the world relies on again and _again_? Why are they the ones who are left to grieve and mourn?

He destroys the room, tearing down the pictures, throwing the chair against the wall, knocking over the dresser, perfectly folded baby clothes scattering across the room. 

Dean stalks over to the crib ready to feel the snap of wood under his heel before it feels like he's been doused in freezing water. 

Cas’s trench coat stares back at him, folded over the bars of the crib like a blanket and all at once the fight goes out of him. He can hear Jack screaming from down the hall, and his breath is leaving him in sharp pants as tears finally fall.

Dean snatches the trenchcoat up and collapses against the wall like all his strings have been cut. He lets his tears stain the fabric as he buries his face in it. 

It still smells like Cas, mixed with his own scent and Jacks, and he knows that soon even that will fade. Eventually, he’ll be left with nothing but faint memories and photos. Cas’s scent, his voice, the vividness of his eyes will fade and Dean will be left with _nothing_.

“You left me alone,” he sobs into the fabric and curls tighter around it. “How could you leave me?” He doesn't know who he's talking to. Cas is gone. Not coming back. 

Dean doesn't know how long he’s been there when he finally pulls himself together, but Jack is still screaming somewhere down the hall and his face feels stiff with drying tears. His entire body aches as he pushes himself off the floor, but the pain is distant in his mind now.

Regret settles like a pit in his stomach as he looks at the carnage. Jack doesn't deserve to have his stuff destroyed because Dean can't handle his own grief. 

Dean makes peace with the fact that Jack would have to spend another couple days in his room and walks out, shutting the door softly. The coat is still clutched in his hands; he couldn't bring himself to part with it even as his heart aches to look at it.

The walk back to Jack gives him more time to let the shame settle somewhere in his chest, doubling as he walks into the main room.

Sam is struggling to calm Jack, who is crying so loud that he can physically feel the ground shake. He looks on the verge of tears himself as Dean walks in and Dean once again feels a wave of regret that nearly brings him to his knees.

“Here,” Dean sounds like he gargled a handful of gravel. “Hand him over, I'm sorry I left while he was like this.” It's the most words Dean had said to Sam since before everything had happened.

Sam eagerly hands Jack over, his tiny hands clutching desperately at Dean's shirt once it's in reach. Sam’s eyes glance down at the trenchcoat, before darting away. 

It takes a few minutes of Dean bouncing Jack back and forth for him to calm even the slightest. 

Anger runs through him, this time directed at himself alone. Jack was _his_ responsibility and he just left him. He is obviously upset by Dean’s actions. He is probably tuned into Dean’s emotions somehow, whether it was because of some freaky baby angel magic or something else.

“It's okay,” Sam sounds nervous, his voice barely more than a whisper. Dean knows that he's the one that caused it and feels like a piece of shit. “I know you're trying to deal with this in your own time. I'm happy to help where I can.” His voice is so sincere it hurts.

“It’s not.”

“What?”

“It’s not okay.” Dean states, running a hand through Jack's hair. He ignores Sam sputtering behind him and walks to his room. 

Both him and Jack need a nap.


	4. Chapter 4

It had been two weeks since his breakdown in the nursery and it still aches when he thinks about it. Like poking a bruise. 

Everytime Sam tries to bring it up Dean shuts him down. He doesn't want to think about the ways he’s failed the two of them, the way he let his anger overtake him. 

The way he was acting just like his father.

At three weeks old, Jack has quickly grown accustomed to life in the bunker, but apparently doesn’t like the fact that he is now sleeping in his own room, even if it is less than 15 feet away from where Dean sleeps. 

Instead, he screams all night until Dean drags himself out of bed and lets him sleep in the newly bought bassinet, close enough that Dean could run his fingers along one tiny arm.

Even now, when he’s sitting on the couch, Jack needs to be perched on his thighs, angled so that Jack’s feet kick Dean’s sternum every time he shifts or relaxes in his arms or over his shoulder. Jack takes most of his naps laying across Dean's chest, or in the wrap that Sammy has consistently made fun of him for. 

That is until Dean tried to make Jack take his nap in the playpen and was met with earpiece shrieks. 

Jack was currently laying on his thighs, one of Dean’s fingers gripped tightly in one hand as he slept while Dean searched through the news on his phone with his other hand.

“I found you a case.” Dean says when Sam finally walks out of his room. 

“What?” 

“A case.” Dean replies, raising an eyebrow at Sam’s confused look. “A ghost, I think. A man was killed by his dead wife according to neighbors.” 

Sam was still giving him a dumbfounded look, eyes flickering between Jack and Dean. 

“Don't worry, he won’t wake up from us talking, I think he finds it calming.” Dean can't help himself from smiling down at the baby. He was growing quickly, seemingly at the same rate as any other baby according to the websites he had read, but it still felt far too fast. 

There are a few quirks that Dean is sure most parents didn't have to deal with, like the baby’s cries crossing over into so inhumanly loud that it made his ears bleed, or a flash of what Dean assumes are wings knocking the baby powder off the changing table.

“You think I’m going on another hunt.” Sam sounds incredulous, eyes narrowed in a way that Dean knew means trouble. 

“Uh, yeah.” Dean started placing his phone on his chest and letting Jack grip his other hand as well. He was worried that one of these days the kid's super strength would kick in and he'd lose a couple fingers. “One of us has to.”

“No, get Jody to do it, I'm not leaving.”

It’s Dean’s turn to let out a stunned “What” his eyes narrowing. Sam is standing at the foot of the couch arms crossed and shoulders tense. 

“Dean last time I left, I came back to you destroying the nursery,” Dean feels his lips pull into a scowl. “I'm not leaving again.”

The only reason Dean doesn't bolt up and storm off is the baby peacefully asleep on his knees. Jack glues him to his spot on the couch, but anger sits at the back of his throat and nearly chokes him. 

“I feel like you should be more worried about doing our fucking job, than about me destroying another nursery.” He spat out. “I'm dealing with it just fine.”

“No Dean, you're really not.” Sam lets out a frustrated sigh and sits in the chair across from him. Dean tries to glare at him, but Sam keeps giving him the same sad look. “You act like you’re doing fine, but you’re not.”

Dean lets out a frustrated growl and debates just waking Jack up so he can leave anyway. His fingers are still trapped in his hands and Dean knows if he tries to pry them out Jack is going to wake up screaming. 

“I’m not?” Dean says mouth twisted into a snarl. “You won’t even admit mom's dead.” He can feel Jack shifting and quickly lowers his voice. “You spend all your time locked in your room trying to figure out a way to bring her back instead of doing our jobs like we’re supposed to.”

“I wasn’t talking about mom.”

Something in Dean snaps and he quickly scoops Jack up. The baby startles just as Dean thought he would, arms flying out and more importantly, tiny shadowy wings extending and smacking into Dean's chest. It knocks the wind out of him. 

Jack isn’t crying yet, but his eyes are wide, peering around for whatever startled him. 

“Dean, you haven’t even admitted to yourself that Cas is gone.” Sam’s voice is quiet, as if he could soften the blow of the words, but it still steals his breath. 

The anger leaves as quickly as it comes, the fight draining out of him. It leaves behind a hollow pit, and Dean teeters on the edge. He knows that if he falls he's not coming out. He had seen it in his dad, his mom, hell he had to drag Sam out of that pit kicking and screaming.

Dean squeezes his eyes shut, buries his face in Jack’s hair. 

He ignores Sam, marching to his room. For a moment he wishes that he could leave, run away from the bunker for a couple days. He can’t stand being stuck here. 

Instead he wanders around his room, hums to the baby in his arms and tries to breathe through the pain in his chest.   
-  
Jack is almost five weeks old when Dean begins to slip. He knows that he hasn't been getting the amount of sleep he should be. Most parents aren’t meant to raise a kid alone, let alone a supernatural kid who refused to be on his own for more than five seconds at a time. 

Jack progresses so quickly it almost hurts to see. He can lift his head slightly, has been more “talkative” seeming to coo back at Dean when he sings. 

The conversation with Sam still sits on the back of his mind. Like a scab he can’t help but pick at. An open wound, his nerves exposed.

Every night, he wakes up and wishes he didn’t, wishes he could just sleep forever. Every night he’s forced to face the fact that he's doing this alone when he shouldn't be. He misses Cas like a piece of him had been burned with him on that pyre. Like a piece of him is missing and he can't do anything to get it back because it's simply gone. Not just missing, but turned to ash and dust.

He tries to breath through the pain in his chest when he wakes up at night to a baby screaming and he has to deal with it by himself. When he looks into Jack's eyes and can only see Cas staring back at him. 

He tries not to drink. His dad had been a mean drunk and the thought of anything happening to Jack while he wasn't at full capacity scared Dean more than anything else, his heart clenching with just the thought. 

But that doesn't mean he doesn't want to. Dean wants a stiff drink with every fiber of his being. To get lost in the haze of alcohol and maybe kill a few things while he’s at it. 

It doesn’t help that the longer he’s stuck at home the more his frustration grows. He doesn’t want to be trapped in the bunker. It leaves too much time for him to think. 

He should have known he wasn't in the headspace to talk to Sam, especially after the various fights they have had over every small thing. Sam refuses to leave the bunker either, possibly thinking he’s helping Dean or maybe just trying to get on his nerves. 

Whatever Sam’s motives were, it didn’t stop Dean from wanting to punch him. 

Dean is laying on the new carpet of the library, Jack on his stomach next to him, doing what the weird lady online had called ‘Tummy Time’. His little head lifts from his arms and he peers at Dean next to him, cooing quietly.

“Yeah, I know kid it's weird isn't it?” Dean rests his hand lightly on Jack's back and snorts. Sam had found a onesie at the store with ‘Daddy’s Little Angel’ plastered across the front and tiny wings sewn onto the back. “Apparently it helps your shoulders and neck, though, so you’ll have to suffer for a while.”

With a flash of golden light a shadowy wing shoots out and smacks into Dean, nearly knocking him over. 

“Hey that's uncalled for!”

Dean hears Sam walking up the steps and turns to look up at him. He looks like he’s deep in thought and the hairs on the back of Dean’s neck stand on end. He’s nearly too tired to care, exhaustion dragging him down like a lead weight. He couldn't tell you the last time he got a full night's sleep. 

Sam eventually comes to a stop in front of Dean and Jack, the baby's neck craning as far as it could to try to look at Sam. Dean sighs and pushes himself into a sitting position, scooping Jack up so he wouldn’t hurt himself trying to look that high. 

The shadowy wings fold away as Dean cradles him on instinct.

Sam is still looking down at them, his brows furrowed. He opens his mouth as if to speak before letting it snap shut again. Instead he sits next to Dean, lets his fingers brush along the hair at the top of Jack’s head. Jack coos in response, reaching out his arms. 

Sam has slowly become more comfortable with the baby, even holds him every once in a while. But still, he has mostly kept his distance, kept to his search for a way to bring mom home. Which is why Dean is so taken aback when Sam finally speaks.

“Let me take Jack for a while.” Dean whips his head to the side, his eyes narrowed, but Sam is just staring at him with a firm look. “I can take care of him for a day or two, you can get away for awhile, maybe visit that bar.”

“You?” Dean starts, climbing to his feet with Jack clutched tightly to his chest. “Sammy, you’ve never been alone with a baby for more than five minutes, no way am I leaving you with Jack for ‘a day or two.’” 

“So,” Sam gets up to follow him as he paced back and forth along the table, bouncing Jack lightly. It is nap time. “As long as you give me a schedule I should be fine. People do it all the time.” Dean turns to give him a raised eyebrow, gesturing wildly to the stitched wings on the baby’s back. Jack isn't a normal baby and normal baby rules don’t apply to him.

“No way, not gonna happen.” 

“Why not? You need a break.”

“I don't need a break, I'm doing fine.” Dean lets out a sigh as Jack's eyes finally fall shut and quickly shushes Sam when he attempts to talk again. Dean has been spending the last two weeks trying to train Jack to sleep in a playpen during naptime. It seems he is less reluctant if the playpen is in the same room as Dean but still, the effort is clearly taking a toll on him.

Last time he had checked, the bags under his eyes had developed their own bags and his hair looks had been sticking up at random angles, three day old gel flaking off. 

Basically he looked like pure shit and he knew it.

Sam gives him a disbelieving look but waits until Jack has passed out and Dean has managed to get him in the playpen before he speaks again.“What's the worst that can happen Dean, we're in a warded bunker and you'd be an hour away, max.” 

Dean nearly stops breathing, it feels like a fist was squeezing his heart. Every possible scenario flashes through his head at once. The angels showing up at the front door, whatever shitheads left at the British Men of Letters tracking them down, Jack screaming loud enough to bring down the whole bunker because Dean left his line of vision.

“A lot, Sammy, just drop the subject, it's not happening.”

Sam lets out a frustrated sigh that immediately raises Dean’s hackles. Anger is a familiar face and he lets himself be overcome by it as Sam continues, oblivious to Dean’s turmoil.

“I wish you could listen to me for once, Dean.” Dean nearly snarls, marching away from where Jack was sleeping. This might get loud and he honestly didn't want to risk waking him. Sam continued to follow him all the way back to the war room. “If you keep going like this you're gonna wear yourself out and then you'll be no use to anyone.”

“Oh you wish? Wishing doesn't do shit, Sammy. It’s the same as praying in my book.” Dean can feel the anger growing like a fire in his chest. It’s too easy for him to just give in. To feel _something_ other than sad or empty. 

“You know what I wish?” Dean spits, spinning on his heel to glare at Sam who stumbles to a stop. “I wish none of this shit had fucking happened. I wish we hadn't let lucifer out of that fucking cage. I wish the fucker could have kept it in his pants. I wish I didn't have to take care of a kid that's not mine, that I don't even want. I wish you would leave me the fuck alone and let me deal with it.” 

Dean’s mouth snaps shut, shame hangs heavy over him but the anger still sits at the back of his throat. 

“God, I need a drink.” Dean freezes as the words leave his mouth. Sam looks stunned and takes a staggered step back. 

All at once, Dean can see himself and his own father, mirror images of grief and anger 30 years apart. The drinking. The silence. 

The anger.

Dean was so scared of falling into that pit of despair, that he never realized he was already there. The moment he admitted to himself that Cas was gone he had flown over the edge. 

Dean can pretend all he wants, has been pretending from the moment Cas has fallen limp on the grass. That Cas wasn’t actually dead, that he would one day walk through the door of that bunker, that he himself was okay. That he was dealing with this the right way. 

Dean can't bring himself to talk, mouth opening and closing but nothing comes out. Sam keeps looking at him that same guarded look in his eyes that he got every time their dad was upset. It makes Dean want to scream, and rage and punch something until his knuckles crack and bleed. 

Instead he curls his fingers around his own wrist, squeezing until he can feel his bones creak. 

“Sam, I…” Dean starts but finds that he can't finish. There’s no excuse, nothing he can say to Sam that would make how he has been acting okay. 

He turns away from Sam’s piercing gaze and stumbles back to where Jack lays in the playpen. He’s not asleep anymore, just glancing up at Dean with far more intelligence than a five week old should possess. Dean picks him up with gentle hands, escapes to his room, closing the door with a resounding slam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been trying to post everyday but for some reason chapter 5 has been really hard for me to write. It should still be out in the next couple days. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

Dean and Sam have fought before. Hell, they’ve split up, gone their separate ways, the whole nine yards over fights. This shouldn’t even be on their radar. 

But something about this lingers in the bunker for days. 

Maybe it’s Sam implying he can’t care for Jack, maybe it’s Dean _still_ not letting Sam take care of Jack. 

Jack wakes up screaming at night and Sam tries to help but there isn’t much he can do when Dean sleeps in the same room. He‘ll wander in only to be sent back out, leaving Dean even more sleep deprived and exhausted, clutching a screaming baby to his chest. 

Maybe it’s Dean just being a dick in his grief.

One day, Dean wakes up to the door of the bunker slamming closed and he bolts out of bed, skidding to a stop in the entryway, gun cocked. All he finds is a scrap of paper on the radar telling him that Sam had left for a hunt and would text him when he was on his way home.

It makes Dean sigh but he guesses it's what he deserves for being such an ass.

It's almost harder, Sam not being there. No matter how much they fought and argued, Dean couldn't bear anything happening to the kid. What Dean had said to his mother, even if it was said in anger was true. 

Dean had to be a mother and a father to Sam, and he would never be able to leave that headspace. Sam will always be Dean’s kid and Dean will always worry about him.

Dean tries to be okay for Jack, but he's slowly fading. He doesn't want to be here, on this earth where he doesn't have his Mom or Cas or Charlie or even Sam at the moment. He wants them back. Dean just wants and wants and wants and the ache in his chest never leaves anymore. 

So he talks to Jack. 

“You would love Cas.” He says one day out of the blue. He had talked to Jack before, but not like this. Never about Cas.

Jack stares up at him, his eyes seeming more and more intelligent as the days pass. Once he starts talking to him it's as if the dam breaks, words spilling out like a prayer. 

“You have the same eyes, you know. I don't know how considering he's not actually your dad.” He says as he gives Jack his first bottle of the day, ignoring how crazy he sounds talking to a 7 week old baby. “Though you have your mothers hair.” Dean pointedly ignores mentioning how similar that shade is to his own. 

“I imagine you’ll talk like him when you're older.” Dean states as Jack sleeps in his arms; he laughs at the thought of a toddler speaking in Cas’s deep baritone. 

“I hope you have his optimism.” Is blurted out as Dean gives Jack a bath, his little legs kicking up water.

And finally:

“I miss him.” 

It comes out of his mouth like a confession, a secret, meant to stay between him and Jack, who lays curled up on his chest. He rises and falls with every breath Dean takes, the motion calming his most recent crying fit. 

“I miss him so much, kid.” He takes a sharp breath through his nose and runs his fingers down Jack’s baby soft cheek, lets his hand rest on the trench coat covering himself and the baby. He can feel the tears gathering in his eyes and feels almost ashamed of himself. He thought this was done after the nursery incident. He didn't have time for tears, not now. “I try to be okay for you and Sam, but sometimes I just want to lay down and go to wherever he is.” Jack looks at him as if he understands, he grips Dean’s fingers like a lifeline. 

“I keep waiting for it to get better, having Sam and you should be enough but it's like a part of me died with him.” Dean finally sobs. “I just want him back,” He pauses trying to drag a breath into his aching lungs, eyes falling shut.

Dean feels a hand on his cheek, so small that it doesn't even span the entire length. Tiny fingers and nails curl into his skin and he covers it with his own. It's completely dwarfed, his entire hand enclosed by Dean’s palm alone, calluses catching on the back of Jack’s hand.

Dean opens his eyes, vibrant green meeting shining golden. Sometimes he forgets that Jack is not completely human, that he’s something more than his newborn exterior shows.

“I didn't mean what I said,” Dean needs to say this, needs Jack to know, even if he didn't quite understand it yet. “I don't wish you were never born, Sam was right I just wish that Cas could be here, with us.” Dean meets Jack’s glowing eyes and watches them fade back to a familiar blue. 

“I think you're the only thing keeping me alive right now.” He admits letting his cheek rest on baby soft hair. 

He can't find it in himself to hate Jack. Even though Cas wasn't here because he wanted to protect the baby, it wasn't Jacks fault. Everytime Dean looks at him he sees what he's lost, the life he wants. But he also sees Cas himself in the baby. In his eyes, in some of his early mannerisms. Cas lives on through Jack.

Maybe it’s for the best that he wasn’t hunting right now. Who knows how sloppy his grief would make him and he didn’t have the energy to fight for his life. 

He finds that he can’t sleep. 

The ache in his chest has been constant since the pyre. It’s like he can’t breathe. Like there’s a vice grip on his lungs, his skin stretched taunt, too tight for his body. 

The only time he feels even vaguely normal is when he has Jack. Taking care of him distracts Dean, let’s him focus on anything that isn’t the hole in his chest just waiting to swallow him whole. Kids need a lot of care, a schedule to keep them on track. And when the kid wasn’t awake screaming to be fed or changed or get attention, Dean was cleaning. 

The bunker still needs to be child proofed, who knew when Jack would start crawling, and they couldn’t leave swords and spells and herbs laying around. 

Since Sam had left, Dean has taken to letting Jack sleep with him again. He would nap with the baby tucked in his sling or curled up on his chest. He spends nights in Dean’s room, the bassinet close enough to touch without getting off the bed. Even then, many nights Dean will give in and let the baby sleep on him. 

They're alone in the bunker for a week. A week of silence broken only by a baby babbling and Deans own inane chattering. A week of the pit of shame in Deans stomach threatening to swallow him whole. 

When the bunker door opens, revealing a windswept Sam, it's as if he can finally breathe again. All of them are in the bunker, safe and sound where he could make sure they were all okay.

Sam looks at him where he lays on the couch, Jack on his knees like always, babbling away at the stuffed moose in Dean’s hand. 

They don't talk about it and, although part of Dean is scared that it will fester and drive Sam away again, he’s almost relieved. Dean knew he was being an ass, knew that he can’t do this alone _and_ deal with whatever shit he has going on at the same time. There was nothing left to say.

Instead, Sam walks over to the couch and sits at the end, nearly on top of Dean’s feet, and lets his head fall back.

“The house was really fucking haunted.” It startles a laugh out of Dean.

“I bet.”

They fall back into a comfortable silence, Sam periodically reaching over to brush a hand through Jack’s hair. It makes Jack glance around, arms waving and hands grasping. Sam doesn't talk about the overly clean bunker, or the trench coat tucked next to Jack or any of the other odds and ends that made it clear that Dean wasn't doing as well as he wanted to seem. 

Then the phone rings.  
-  
It feels like a dream. 

The drive is hazy, unmemorable, his eyes not quite focusing on the road, his hands shaking where they’re white knuckling the steering wheel. Jack is oddly silent in the back, Sam sitting up straight next to the carrier as if he had forgotten how to relax in the week that he was gone. There are no coos or cries that Dean has gotten so used to over the nearly two months that Jack has been with him. 

The drive takes two hours. Two hours of silence, no music, just the sounds of his own harsh breathing. 

Something catches in Dean’s throat when they turn the corner and a figure comes into view. He’s in a suit, the black material shimmering in the blue light of the photobooth. His trench coat is still tucked away on the couch, abandoned in their haste.

Dean doesn't even manage to turn off the impala, barely manages to put it in park before he’s stumbling out. His legs nearly collapse beneath him. 

_Cas._

Cas, who's whole and healthy in the sharp blue light of the phone booth. Cas who’s looking at Dean as if he means more than anything in the world. 

“Hello, Dean.”

It takes Dean a moment where he's all shaky breaths and stuttering heartbeats before he can even move. One step and then the next, his mind disconnected as Cas also takes a step towards him. 

It's not a picture perfect moment like the movies where he runs and Cas rushes to greet him, arms open wide. Dean moves with cautious steps as if Cas will disappear if he moves too fast. He walks up to Cas step by trembling step until they're in front of each other. Neither looks away.

Dean cups Cas’s face, his eyes glued to the sky blue ones before him. He feels the warmth of his cheek and the scrape of stubble against his palm. 

“Cas…” Dean's voice is thick, choking past the lump in his throat as Cas reaches up to grab his hand. Not moving it, just simply covering it with his own. 

“We thought you were dead.” Sam’s voice echoes in the alleyway, breaking the tension between the two as Dean startles away. Both him and Cas look back towards the impala, Dean sucking is a sharp breath as he remembers Jack. 

He pulls away from Cas, who, for a moment, refuses to get go of his hand. Dean smiles back at him and pats him on the shoulder before half jogging back to the impala. The burn of his gaze follows Dean all the way to the impala. It brands the back of his neck and begs him to look back. 

“I was.” At the sound of Cas’s voice, Dean leans his forehead against the impala, letting the cool metal settle something in him before he continues to unbuckle a very disgruntled Jack. “I was in the empty, asleep until I heard a baby crying.” Dean raises his eyebrow at Jack as he finally pulls him from his carrier. Jack gives a gummy smile, as if he knows what's going on, his blue eyes crinkling. 

“I annoyed an ancient cosmic being so much that he sent me-” Dean hears the words catch in Cas’s throat as he stands up straight, Jack cradled in his arms. “Is that?”

Sam stands awkwardly off to this side, still tucked against the impala as if he was having trouble standing. Dean ignores him, motioning for Cas to come closer. He props Jack up against his arm so Cas can get a good look at him.

He’s able to keep his own head up for a little bit, and his bright blue eyes have retained their unnervingly intelligent look. It’s made even more obvious when they glow golden in Cas’s presence as if reacting to his grace. His hair is sticking up randomly, resistant to Deans attempts to brush it with the tiny soft brush he had bought. 

But he smiles up at Cas as if he knows him, as if he remembers him from his time before he was born. 

Jack had only smiled at Dean like that before. 

“Hey Cas,” Something catches in Deans throat and he runs one of his fingers down Jack’s cheek. “I want you to meet your son, Jack.” 

Dean sees Cas’s eyes flickering from Jack back to himself, as if he couldn't choose what to look at first. He’s still standing too far away for Dean’s liking, the space between them drawing Dean forward until he’s toe to toe with Cas. 

Cas still isn't moving, his attention solely on Dean now. Dean hasn't looked away, can't bring himself to. If he looks away Cas will vanish in a flutter of wings or a burst of light. Or Dean will wake up alone in the bunker, in his bed with no one but Jack for company. 

He tries to memorize every piece of this moment, from the blue of Cas’s eyes to the ozone smell that surrounds him like the beginnings of a thunderstorm. The weight of Jack in his arms and the warmth emanating from Cas like a furnace. Even Sam awkwardly coughing in the background. 

“Here,” Dean starts and grabs Cas’s arm. “Hold your arms like this okay, you need to remember to support his head, he can only hold it up by himself for a little bit.” Cas gives him a wide eyed look but lets Dean position his arms properly. 

Dean slides Jack into Cas’s arms, lets his hands hover underneath until they stop shaking. 

“Jack.” Cas is looking at the baby with soft eyes to contrast his stiff body. Jack is still smiling, cooing up at Cas and reaching out to tug on his tie, and something in Dean settles.

The emptiness that had nearly consumed him for the past month was fading even as he looked on at Cas and Jack together. Finally together like they should have been from the start. The emptiness is filled with happiness and fondness and so much relief that it crawls up his throat and bubbles past his lip as a laugh. 

Cas is still standing awkwardly and Sam is looking away as if he'd rather be anywhere but there because Dean is still close enough to Cas to lean over and….

Cas looks up at Deans laugh and Dean is suddenly struck silent by those eyes. Those blue, _blue_ eyes that he's missed more than anything. Comparing them now, Jack’s are similar but nothing will capture Dean’s attention the way that Cas’s do.

Dean pulls Cas into a hug, squishes Jack between the two of them, because suddenly even the little space they have between them seems too much. If he doesn't get closer and closer and closer, Cas will escape like ashes from a pyre; he’ll take Jack with him this time. 

He buries his face in Cas’s neck, cups the back of his head as if he could somehow bring Cas closer. He stays like that for as long as he can stand. Feels Jack squirming between them, feels Cas’s arm cautiously come to rest on his waist, like any sudden movement would scare Dean away like a skittish animal. 

Finally he pulls back, lets their cheeks brush, stubble against stubble. Rests his forehead against Cas’s, eyes closed, feels the brush of air as Cas lets out an unsteady breath. 

“You left me with your kid.” Dean chokes out, and gently headbutts Cas. He pulls back, sliding his hands to either side of Cas’s neck. He looks him in the eye, meets his searching look head on. “I thought I told you never to pull a stunt like that the last time you got stabbed.” Cas pulls his best bitchface, but doesn't pull away. He just lets Dean cradle him like he was something fragile.

“I didn’t mean to, Dean.” Dean’s hands shake as his name falls from Cas’s lips. “I just had to get back,” He pauses, tightening his grip on Jack, who is looking up at them as if they are a particularly interesting telenovela. “I could hear you calling me all the way back through the portal and I couldn't-”

Dean suddenly lunges forward, cuts off whatever he was about to say with a kiss. 

It’s nothing more than a press of lips, definitely not Dean’s best work, but it's with Cas. Far from perfect, with Jack still between the two and in some dark alley in some shithole town and his asshole brother trying to be quiet as he slips into the car behind them. But Dean honestly couldn't care less. 

It's everything he ever wanted, nine years of pining and avoiding the topic. _Nine years_ of wanting something so desperately that, sometimes, it hurts to breathe around the ache in his chest and the want in his gut. Of losing him over and over and somehow never learning that he had to take his chance while he still could because who knew if they were going to be alive tomorrow.

Cas trails after him, his hand tightens on Dean’s waist as he pulls away. His eyes flutter open searching Deans for an answer he already knew. Dean just smiles in answer and fully steps away. 

He lets his arm trail all the way from Cas’s neck to his hand, tangling their fingers together and tugging him back to the impala.

“Let's go home, Cas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it’s finally finished. Sorry it took so long! I’m not entirely happy with it so I’ll probably rewrite some part of this in the future. Also tag change cause Cas is no longer dead.
> 
> If you want to hear my insane ramblings about supernatural I’m @deanwinchesterforbatman2k21 on Tumblr.


	6. Epilogue

It's a quiet ride home.

Jack is quick to fall asleep, just as he always is when they're in the car for any length of time. Sam is fading in and out of consciousness next to him, curling around his carseat like a giant cat, and Cas….

Cas is still staring at Dean as if Dean will suddenly disappear if he looks away for too long. Dean finds himself glancing over more than he would like to admit, checking to see he’s still there, that, after nearly two months of grief and rage that sat at the back of his throat like bile, this wasn't a dream. Their hands are intertwined on the seat between them, Dean running his thumb along Cas’s knuckles when he can't look away from the road.

When they get back to the bunker they're going to have to talk. A part of Dean is dreading it the same way that he dreads every conversation about feelings, but another is almost giddy, because this was it; this was the win he needed. 

They still need to find a way to get Mary back, and the weight of the angels and demons no doubt coming after Jack still sits heavy on the back of his mind, but they have Cas. He is a solid presence in the Impala, a line of heat along his side as they finally pull into the garage, and soft hands and shuffling feet as Dean pulls Jack’s carrier out of the backseat. 

It grounds something in Dean, a piece of him that had been set adrift without Cas to keep him steady. 

Jack is awake by the time they set his carrier on the radar in the war room. He’s gazing around with that same wide eyed curiosity, like he didn't live there and see the room daily. 

“Bedtime for the twerp.” Dean announces. He leans back so that Cas can get a clear view of how to take Jack out the car seat, one hand tucked underneath his neck and the other hefting the baby out and onto his shoulder. “Jack, too, I guess, he needs just as much beauty rest as Sam.” 

The joke falls on deaf ears, Sam already wandering away with one last harsh pat on Cas’s shoulder and Cas making the cosmic entity equivalent to grabby hands at the gurgling baby. 

Jack giggles though, like he can somehow understand what Dean is saying, and he’s nearly overcome with fondness for the baby in his arms. 

“Thank you, Jack.” Dean mutters, sliding him into Cas’s arms. “I’m glad someone here appreciates my humor.”

“Yes, you're very funny, Dean.” Dean glares down at Cas, but only for a second. The slight upturn of his mouth makes keeping a straight face nearly impossible. 

A thought strikes him and Dean glances over at the library, scanning the new couch they had placed in there. He tugs Cas with him, finger slotting together just as perfectly as they have every time.

He sees Cas’s mouth fall open a little as Dean pulls the trench coat out of the folds of the couch with a sheepish grin. It looks nearly the same as it did the night it all happened. Dean had managed to get most of the blood out, but the stain was still there. He didn’t dare throw it in the wash, worried whatever was left of Cas would fade away like everything else. 

There is dirt and ash on the back, and small rips and tears and patches sewn in, but Cas looks at it like it's his greatest treasure. He takes it with his free hand, grace flaring, eyes shining blinding white for just a moment as the tears and stains disappear. Dean watches as Jack's eyes follow, searing gold and orange before fading back to blue. 

Cas hands Jack back to Dean while he shrugs on the trench coat and a deep part of Dean is soothed by the action. Dean nods with a smile and hands Jack back. His smile grows wider as Jack immediately scrunches his fingers into whatever parts of the trenchcoat he could reach.

“Jack might want it back at some point.” Dean admits, taking in the picture before him. His hands itch to actually capture the image on film, print it out, keep in tucked in his pocket with the other one. “It’s been his security blanket, pretty sure it’s ‘cause it smells like you.” Dean pointedly doesn't mention why he knows this. Doesn’t mention that the trench coat was as much of a comfort to him as it was to Jack, that when the two of them slept it was almost always tucked next to them or on top of them.

Sam hadn’t brought it up, something Dean was grateful for since he wouldn't know how to begin to explain it, but Dean knew he wanted to.

Cas, for what it's worth, isn't looking at him like he’s crazy. He just has a soft look in his eye, a small quirk to his lips as he looks between Jack and Dean. 

He reaches up and lets his fingers brush against Cas’s cheek, watches as Cas leans into the motion, eyes fluttering shut. 

“Come on, Buddy, let’s get the kid ready for bed.” Cas nods along to his words but doesn’t move, doesn’t open his eyes. His free hand grips Dean’s flannel, twines around it until his knuckles brush Dean’s hip through too many layers. 

Dean secretly wonders if it will always be like this. If the sense of something waiting in the wings to snatch this from him will ever leave. If they’ll ever stop clutching and clinging like the other will disappear in a puff of smoke. Like a child hanging onto the fading memory of a dream. 

Dean doesn’t completely let go of Cas. He lets his hands slip down to the small of his back to guide him through the doorway and into the kitchen.

“Do you want to make the bottle or do you want to hold Jack.” 

“I’ll watch you this time, so I’ll know for next time.” 

Dean nods and slides away, curling his hand into a fist as if he could preserve Cas’s warmth. 

It’s a comfortable routine he has, a methodical process that doesn’t take much thought besides making sure he adds the right amount of scoops (one for every two ounces of water) and making sure the water doesn’t burn his skin(he tips the bottle onto the inside of his wrist). He’d done this since he was four, almost five, did it again with Bobby John for a couple days, has been doing it for the past two months. 

It is strange to not have a baby in his arms or strapped to his chest while he works, and when he turns around at the end he’s struck still. 

Cas is leaning against the counter with an expression Dean can’t even begin to process on his face. He’s looking at Dean the same way Dean was looking at _him_ in that picture that’s burning a hole in his pocket. Like he would rather be here than anywhere else in the world, like he would trade anything to be able to stay in that moment permanently. 

It’s an expression that says, if Cas had a heaven, this would be _it_. 

Dean wants to kiss him and is suddenly struck dumb by the realization that he _can._ He’s allowed to do that now. 

Their second kiss is just as good as the first, if not better, Cas leaning into it with a sigh. His free hand is threading through the hair on the back of Dean’s neck in a way that makes his heart somehow beat faster, makes it feel like it’s gonna come right out of his chest. 

He wonders if they’re gonna end up making a habit of kissing with Jack in between them and chuckles to himself as he pulls away. 

Jack, for what it’s worth, is completely ignoring them. He’s gumming at Cas’s tie in a way that means he’s gonna start crying if they don’t give him a bottle within five minutes. 

Still, he leans in again. This kiss is nothing more than a peck. A reminder that they are both there, that this is real. 

Dean pulls away with a smile. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally the epilogue! I’ve been writing this for weeks and it kept getting longer and longer so I decided to just make it into a series. 
> 
> The next fic will be a little sad still and will mainly deal with Cas learning how Dean was while he was gone and how he reacts to it along with some insight into Jack’s powers and his angel side. 
> 
> Thank you all for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Might rewrite this entire thing cause I’m not as happy with it anymore :/


End file.
